


Wait for Me to Come Home

by 4vrAFangirl



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Night Terrors, Poor Life Choices, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Destruction, Sexual Content, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-01 08:40:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5199419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4vrAFangirl/pseuds/4vrAFangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint doesn't belong with the Avengers, because the place where he belonged is gone. Phil Coulson is dead. And it doesn't matter what they say down in psych, it's his fault. He helped that power-hungry bastard that attacked the helicarrier-his friends, his coworkers... He helped Loki deliver the final blow, that destroyed his home, his world, his... Phil. He can't even begin to fathom how it is the rest of the team has either forgotten or forgiven him for it, because Clint certainly can't. But if it'll make his doc happy so she can check the box to get him back into the field and actually doing something besides thinking about everything he's lost, sure he'll revisit his silly photography hobby. But suddenly there's Hydra, and SHIELD is gone- only it isn't because Coulson isn't really dead... Clint can't keep up with this futzing sh-</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wait for Me to Come Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trilliath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trilliath/gifts).



> Title credit goes to Ed Sheeran's "Photograph", which in part helped to inspire and provide a soundtrack while this fic was being written.
> 
> Like so many great things, this started out small and simple, and my fangirl and shipping brain took off with it. This was just supposed to be a short one-shot spotlight on Clint, and later Phil, inspired by this: fantastic [post](http://trilliath.tumblr.com/post/132561537572/i-want-photographerclint-taking-these-stunning) because it was simply too perfect and beautiful not to try to write it, even if I've only ever read Phlint and never written it before now. I don't know if this is what the original poster had in mind exactly, but I hope you all enjoy it as much as I have done in making it, and can forgive me for the delay in updating my ongoing Hartwin ABO to take a brief walk with these characters. 
> 
> It's certainly not a requirement for reading this fic, but I've also posted a fanmix on 8tracks with some of the songs which inspired and made up the background music while this was being written, which you can check out [here](http://8tracks.com/4vrafangirl/wait-for-me-to-come-home-1)
> 
> Want a peek behind the scenes of writing these stories? Got a prompt or idea for a fic you'd like to see? Drop me a note on my Tumblr: [afangirlreadsfics](http://www.afangirlreadsfics.tumblr.com)

Clint Barton is very good at what he does, and don't get him wrong he enjoys it. There's not many jobs left in the world that would let you make your way with what for all intents and purposes is a Paleolithic weapon. And S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't make a habit of sending him out to shoot upstanding citizens. He gets paid well enough he could probably rent a decent apartment, but nobody gives him any shit for continuing to live in the barracks instead. He gets three square meals a day, or perhaps more accurately circular ones, because let's face it: _Pizza is amazing, Phil- it's your carbs, dairy, meats, and veggies in one._

And then there's Phil Coulson. The man who chased him for the better part of five years, who _shot him in the fucking leg_ just to have a conversation with him about bringing him in from the cold and uncertainty of being a bow for hire, and offer him a steady job and place within S.H.I.E.L.D., and that really is all that Clint has never known he needed: just some where he felt like he belonged. Everyone, well except Nat, because Natasha didn't miss anything (she was a scary and damn good spy that way), assumed that place for Clint was S.H.I.E.L.D. or later the Avengers, but in fact it wasn't a place at all, so much as wherever Phil was.

 _Not Coulson_ , because yeah, Clint liked and respected Coulson, after he got over the whole ' _you shot me!_ ' thing. But Coulson was a suit, a carefully constructed mask and persona that Phil happened to wear whenever he was on the clock. And it took entirely too long working together for Clint to realize that, but once he had, well there didn't seem to be any point in pretending he wasn't curious to get to know the man underneath it. And it didn't take long to decide he liked Phil a whole lot better.

Phil was relatable. So much more human than the man he presented himself as while he was on duty. And yeah okay, Clint _might _be responsible for that rumor about Coulson actually being some kind of android or life-model decoy, but that was _ages_ ago, really. Phil was a regular sort of guy though. He liked baseball, classic cars, crap reality television, and Captain America. _God did the man like Captain America..._ Which was kind of adorable really, especially that photo of a very young Phil in a handmade costume of Cap, Natasha had been so good as to dig up.__

But then, S.H.I.E.L.D. just had to go find and thaw out the original article, just as Clint was figuring out that maybe he wanted _more_ with Phil, and the archer figured what little chance he's ever had just died. Not least of all because it puts at least a dozen states between them on what should have been their night to watch "Dog Cops." But also because if Phil Coulson is remotely interested in men, well Clint's certainly not Captain fucking America, is he?

Which sucks, because as it turns out when all is said and done and the dust is left to settle Steve is actually a nice guy. A _really_ nice guy, which makes it incredibly hard for Clint to dislike him. But some emotional, completely irrational part of him can't stop seeing his new team as the dominos that caused his whole world to come toppling down. And his former handler would be so disappointed in him, but Clint's hardly built himself a reputation as a team player, and it was Coulson who thought- _insisted really_ -he had what it took to be an Avenger; the archer still can't see it.

Clint doesn't belong with the Avengers, because the place where he belonged is gone. Phil Coulson is dead. And it doesn't matter what they say down in psych, it's his fault. He helped that power-hungry bastard that attacked the helicarrier-his friends, his coworkers... He helped Loki deliver the final blow that destroyed his home, his world, his... _Phil_. He can't even begin to fathom how it is the rest of the team has either forgotten or forgiven him for it, because Clint certainly can't.

It actually starts out as one of the less painful suggestions to come out of his mandatory psych sessions to get back into the field with S.H.I.E.L.D. It's simple enough as homework assignments go, but it still takes him a week to work up to it. Since he staunchly refused to keep a diary, his doc had suggested a kind of photo diary instead.

................................................................................................................................................................ 

Anyone who's ever had to act as Hawkeye's handler before ( _And before he finally wound up with Coulson, Clint worked his way through an impressive number of them_ ) is familiar with his penchant for bending the rules. What none of them until Coulson bothered to examine though, was that the archer didn't usually do so without good reason. _Well... Unless they really annoyed or pissed him off somehow._

The photos hadn't fallen into either of those categories though. It was a spur of the moment decision, really. Only, S.H.I.E.L.D. gave him a camera and telephoto lens to gather some intel on a person of interest, because everyone knows the archer sees best at a distance, and once he'd finished it just seemed a waste not to take a few shots of the fantastic bird's eye view his assignment had afforded him. Tech didn't say anything, not for the first few times at least, a photo here, another there, it didn't amount to too much extra time or cost getting them developed with the rest, and they _were_ terrific shots. But you mouth off over the comms to the wrong blowhard handler, and they tend to take it personally, and Clint suddenly stopped getting those kinds of missions, even if he was the best.

But then agent Coulson came along. A man (if indeed he wasn't a life-model decoy of some sort) who, nobody seemed entirely sure what his official position within S.H.I.E.L.D. actually was, but it was damn sure higher than that of handler for the agency's only sanctioned archer and biggest pain in the ass. And Coulson didn't care if Clint questioned his orders or offered up his own thoughts in the strategy meetings or adapted on the fly, so long as he was smart about it, and treated the older man with the same respect Coulson gave him. And yeah, it took a fair number of missions for Clint to deem the suit worthy of that kind of implicit trust, because you don't come from the sort of background Clint does without picking up some issues...

But once he had? Once he stopped resisting, stopped being an underling or an asset, and started actually being a team player-with agent Coulson? Their partnership became the stuff of S.H.I.E.L.D. legend: anticipating one another's thoughts and movements, strengthening and challenging each other's weaknesses... They operated like the very best kind of well-oiled machine.

Rumors abound as how exactly they did it. Clint always got a chuckle out of those that suggested perhaps he too was some sort of highly-sophisticated android ( _as if anyone would want or design a computer so mouthy_ ), but his favorite was that the two of them were in fact the old (albeit odd) married couple they sometimes seemed bickering over coffee or fighting over last-donut rights. The archer couldn't possibly think of anything more ridiculous.

And then the agent had bought him a Christmas present. The man actually made a point of stopping by Clint's quarters on a day he'd not even been in to headquarters ( _and in non-agent, civilian and casual dress no less!_ ), to give Clint his gift. Seeing Coulson in a sweater and jeans was peculiar enough, but a Christmas present? Clint hadn't received a Christmas present in... God, he couldn't account for how long it had been. It had always been just another day for years now, and he certainly hadn't thought to get Coulson anything.

It didn't matter, Coulson insisted that he had not expected anything from the agent ( _And didn't that just make him feel wonderful..._ ), that he'd simply thought it would be something Clint would appreciate, and the winter holidays seemed as good an excuse as any to give it to him. With that in mind Clint decided against waiting until Christmas to open it, because let's face it just because he could be doesn't mean he likes being patient, and anyway _wouldn't Coulson like to see him open his gift?_ If the smile on the older man’s face is any indication, he expected or at least hoped for as much.

It's a camera. A fucking nice one. Scratch that, a _really_ fucking nice one, because Clint can already see even just from a cursory glance that R &D has made some adjustments and improvements to it. Waterproof, longer battery life, shatterproof lens... There's even a nice case to house it for him. He shakes his head in disbelief, because there's got to be some mistake, this can't be for him.

"You'll have to pay for your own prints from now on I'm afraid," Coulson says, sounding almost apologetic, which is nothing short of silly. "And the first time you let it get in the way of a mission, I'll have your ass, and Director Fury will have mine, but I've seen some of the non-mission photos you took on your ops before. They're beautiful, Barton. It's good to have a hobby, especially in our line of work."

It's in that instant that the archer wonders what exactly his handler does for a hobby, and wishes there were some way to get a photo of this moment, without Coulson's knowledge, because suddenly Clint feels as though he is seeing him with brand new and sharper eyes, at the distance and with the objectivity that he needed to see that Coulson, in his own quirky way, is rather 'beautiful' himself. He does his best to commit every detail to memory instead.

"Clint," the archer corrects finally, still gaping a bit, and the older man raises an eyebrow in surprise. "You got me a Christmas present, Sir; I'd say you can call me Clint."

"Phil," Coulson replies, a small hint of a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, and all but radiating from his bright blue eyes.

And that isn't the precise moment that Clint falls in love with the man who shot him ( _and doesn't that suggest all kinds of weird things about him... _), the man who brought him in, who's looked out for and after him-even when he tried his best not to deserve it... But it's as good a moment as any if one were trying to nail down when exactly Clint stopped thinking the idea of the two of them having any sort of personal relationship off-the-clock as ' _ridiculous._ '__

................................................................................................................................................................ 

Clint goes to the roof of what has now been repurposed and renamed the Avengers tower, and for a moment thinks about jumping or just walking off of it. He could be with Phil again... Nat would probably bring him back just to kill him herself though. He takes a picture of the skyline just as the sun starts to set instead. _Phil would like the view_ , he thinks. And that's how it starts, because Clint's frankly too broken these days to keep any sort of journal or diary- photographic or otherwise for himself, so he takes pictures of all the things he thinks his handler would have appreciated if he were still around.

They're rather silly at first, hardly prize-winners. Even if Phil were still here to judge them, Clint's confident any positive remarks he might have would simply boil down to the other man being kind. But it's a start though, and it's the first time he's touched this thing since Phil died; and while it's certainly not enough to have motivated him in the first place, it seems to make his doc happy.

He bought lenses since Phil gave him the camera, learned all the ins and outs, and the fancy bells and whistles Research and Development hooked him up with. Seems a shame after awhile to waste all those extras only taking casual pictures of still-life.

The shots are always candid. Clint's always preferred that for portraits- they seem more honest somehow, that way. And since the pictures are only really for himself ( _and Phil's ghost_ ) he figures he doesn't really need their permission or awareness to take their photographs.

He still hasn't forgotten or entirely let go of Phil's death, but he's at least stopped laying any part of the blame on his new team, even if he can't do the same for himself. The series of shots he captures of Steve when he first embarks on portrait studies are completely free of any malice, bitterness, or jealousy. Instead Clint tries to capture what lies behind the cowl and shield, the man only his teammates and friends know, the man that had inspired a young Phil Coulson's admiration. The juxtaposition of Steve whose face looks eternally youthful, but whose eyes somehow belie how old he really is, how much he's lived to see as he stares unseeing out a window. And in another moment looks perfect with his hair utterly wild, body sweaty, and pose far more happy and carefree beside a laughing and somewhat pouty Sam. The blonde’s face screwed up in concentration, tongue poking ever so slightly out of the corner of his mouth, as he rescues a cat of all things whose become stuck in a tree for a distraught little girl.

He manages to find Thor just after touching back down from Asgard, his cape and clothes a bright, rich contrast to the cloudy and gray backdrop of the city as he dusts himself off... Natasha as she stretches in their gym, all cat-like grace and perfect poise, with just a hint of the mystery that always surrounds her. 

He catches Bruce in the lab with Tony, and is just the tiniest bit proud he's somehow managed to capture the way the two geniuses become excitable little boys when left alone to their own devices with their toys, the light of Tony's arc reactor bouncing and playing off of various abandoned and forgotten coffee mugs, and other nearby surfaces. Another shot finds a sleepy, curly and tousle-haired Bruce, lazily reading a book over his morning tea before the others wake up and join him. Tony, in a rare moment of stillness, arms wrapped both possessive and protectively around Pepper where they've both fallen asleep on the couch during a team movie night.

He keeps them all to himself at first, in an album in his apartment. Not because like the first photos he took for this project, they're no good, but because they are somehow even more intensely personal than he had anticipated, and because as much as Clint has managed to capture each of his teammates, the collection as a larger whole somehow reveals a lot about himself too.

He doesn't know why he keeps taking them after Nat and Steve discover Hydra in the ranks and take down S.H.I.E.L.D., doesn't know if the doc he was seeing was with Pierce or one of the good ones. By now he supposes taking photos every day, or near to it, has simply become habit-a way of accounting for the passage of time in his life, post-Phil, and now post- S.H.I.E.L.D.

Natasha likely noticed first; probably knew about it even as he thought he was being stealthy in taking her picture. But if she did, she doesn't say anything about it. It's Pepper- ever the detail person who notices next- and asks Clint about seeing them, and once he relents, insists that he should consider showing them, not just to his subjects, but in a gallery somewhere for the world at large, and the archer is flattered-really-but nowhere near that certain of his photos and skills.

What he misses though, what he wants more than anything- aches for is the chance to add a man to his collection he knows full well he can't, that he will never see again. There's a hint of sadness in Maria's face no one but Clint and his camera ever see, a steely determined resignation to do a job that was never supposed to be hers. Not that she does her job poorly, not at all, but handling a team of superheroes was always the brainchild and supposed to be for that secretly nerdy agent in perfectly fitted suits and coordinates ties, who had endless episodes of Super Nanny on his DvR.

Then suddenly he's back, and Clint's entire world feels as though it's been flipped upside down, turned inside out and thoroughly wrung out, because not only is Coulson alive and fucking well, but Maria knew the whole time, or near enough to it. And the bullshit excuse being offered up about security levels doesn't fly, because probation or not he's high enough clearance and so are Nat and Cap and they hadn't had a clue either. Which can only mean one thing, Coulson didn't want them to know, not even Clint, and the archer can't quite be sure what to do or where to go with that.

He thinks about punching Hill when she is finally forced to tell them after they run into Coulson's new team while trying to save the world from the villain of the week, but it's not really her fault; Fury is in the wind, and Phil- _Coulson_ , the archer corrects- is busy with his new agents, so he takes Nat up on her offer to spar with him, purposefully allowing himself to take a few good blows before Natasha catches on to what he's doing and puts a stop to it.

"Clint-" she tries, but the archer walks out, retreating to his rooms without a word or backward glance.

He thinks about throwing the camera off the roof, but as much as he's hurting, he doesn't actually want to hurt anyone else, certainly not an innocent bystander. He could chuck it against the nearest wall though... He supposes now that Coulson is in fact still alive he doesn't have to keep taking pictures for him. He doesn't have to feel guilty about being responsible for Loki stabbing and _killing_ him if he's not dead. But what the mind knows and the heart feels are rarely one in the same, especially for Clint.

Was he ever actually dead, or did he and Fury just cooked the whole thing up to bring the team together? It followed that if that were the case it would be better the team never learned of the deception, it would fracture their trust in S.H.I.E.L.D., but for all his years of service as an agent and specialist Clint's unwavering trust and faith had never actually been with the organization. It had been in one man, and the knowledge that that one man would look out for his best interests (and Natasha's after he'd talked her into coming in). 

Clint has not felt this helpless and lost since Barney left him for dead in a ditch on the side of the road all those years ago. And for the first time since he's been free of it, the archer almost longs for Loki's thrall again- for the simplicity of being free from his traitorous heart- bleeding out, but never actually letting him die. It's ironic is what it is, Coulson is alive, and Clint's never wished more that he were dead.

................................................................................................................................................................ 

Barton is nearly crushed by a car projectile thrown by a super-powered person because he loses situational awareness, stopping dead in the middle of the street to stare at him. It's over in a moment, when one of his teammates, probably Natasha shouts in his ear, and the archer is turning back to fighting some less than happy and distinctly un-friendly Inhumans, but Phil even as he helps Skye- _Daisy_ , he corrects mentally- can't push Clint's face from the forefront of his mind, one emotion bleeding into the next in mere seconds, before he abruptly returned to himself and his face became a neutral mask, his walls back up again.

_Shock. Disbelief. Anger. Hurt. Betrayal._

And he's known this was coming. Had known the minute that he was cognitively aware he hadn't actually died on the helicarrier (or rather that he had, but Fury wouldn't let that stand), that his specialist would react this way. After five years of tracking him down to offer him a position in S.H.I.E.L.D. and over ten working together, he's intimately familiar with Clint Barton's history and his trust issues. But it had been nearly 9 months by the time he was done with his extensive rehab ( _and brainwashing_ ), his strike team had been absorbed into the Avengers just as he had always hoped for them. They didn't need him anymore; they had actual superheroes and demigods to watch their six. And the more time that passed, well, the harder it was to work up to announcing his recovery, especially once he learned how exactly it had been done.

He isn't carving anymore, now he finally understood the meaning of it all, had gotten to the bottom of that forgotten city and learned what it was all about, but sleep still alludes him more nights than not. And when he can sleep he still has nightmares. Dreams of the project and machines that brought him back, of carving, of killing, of violent aliens and powered people coming after him and his team... He bolts upright in bed mid-shout sometimes, certain of excruciating pain from a hand that's no longer there.

He's a mess, and he can't even properly knot a tie to hide it behind anymore. He's never been less useful to the archer, but that momentary glimpse of emotion before he's bottled it all back up again is enough to tell Phil how badly he's screwed this one up. Natasha smacks him- **hard** , but he figures he's more than earned that. He wishes it could be that simple with Clint; that he could lay him out and be done with it, instead of avoiding him whenever he visits the tower.

It's just by chance that he learns about the photographs, but once he does it seems like everyone has one of Clint's photos. _There's even one of May,_ Daisy informs him, _actually smiling and laughing at the helm of the Bus._

There does not, however, seem to be any photographs of him. Not where he is the specific subject at least. He's in the background of a few shots here and there, but it's obvious it's just a coincidence. Given the sort of silent and cold shoulder treatment he's been getting from the archer it isn't really much of a surprise, but Phil finds he can't help being at least a tiny bit disappointed all the same. Then again, Phil can't remember Clint ever taking his picture before either. He can take a hint; Phil has never bothered fooling himself in thinking that he meant anywhere near as much to Clint as the archer has to him. 

He's always known that his crush, and later the love he's come to feel for the other man can only be one-sided. There are of course people with larger age gaps between them than their eight years that have made relationships work, but unlike Clint, Phil actually looks his age. Clint has never been the superficial type, but the archer could easily have anybody, particularly now-even as a less famous face of the Avengers team- so there's not much reason why the archer would want him.

Phil's hairline has been slowly receding for the better part of the last two decades, and he's lost the battle with the small layer of fat that stubbornly clings around his middle hiding the muscles beneath. Not that Phil has let himself go, even now he spends a lot more of his time at a desk now rather than in the field S.H.I.E.L.D is still too fractured, far too few in number for him not to be hands-on, even as the organization's head. But Phil knows his virtues have always been more attractive than what he has to physically recommend him. Clint takes stunning photographs of beautiful things, and it shouldn't be a surprise or too great disappointment he isn't among Clint's subjects, as Phil has never been what anyone would think of as beautiful.

Phil may have hoped that Clint might find at least some small feature of his pleasing enough to capture a he has with his own and Phil's various team members, but Phil refuses to be ashamed though. He's hard-working, loyal, with plenty to be proud of, including being an attentive and skillful lover for those that can get passed his rather plain appearance. Barton simply doesn't seem to be one of those people.

And that's okay, really it is, Phil's not seen this many years without seeing and getting used to disappointments and rejection now and again. He can handle it. It's the silence that's killing him. He's always known Clint was never going to go for a man like himself, but at one time they had been friends, and the fact that Barton says more words to whatever villain or monster he happens to be helping the Avengers battle than he does to him anytime he visits the tower stings- more than a little. He probably deserves it, but he's dying to fix it.

"I thought you were dead," he admits one afternoon when he manages to stakeout the shared kitchen on the upper floor in order to catch Clint alone to talk.

"When?"

"When I confronted Loki on the helicarrier," Phil continues, "Fury said you'd been compromised- I watched the footage myself. Saw you attack the carrier... If Loki didn't kill you when he was through, an agent provably would have."

"Natasha wouldn't have-"

"She would have if that was the only choice she had- the only way to save you. She got lucky. You both did."

"So what, you thought you'd go take on big bad Loki yourself?"

Truthfully, Phil had thought many things. Thought maybe if he could actually kill the god, perhaps he could free the archer from his thrall. Failing that though, when Loki did inevitably tire of Clint and kill him, they could be together again. He hadn't actually had much hope that he might kill the demigod, but he would never have been able to forgive himself if he didn't try to fight to protect his fellow agents and those he cared about. At the very least he hoped to get in at least one or two good shots for Clint. 

"I thought you were dead," Phil repeats simply as if this explains everything.

"Yeah," Clint replies bitterly with a scowl as though the very words leave a sour taste in his mouth, pointedly making his way around Phil with his plate of food to retreat back to his own floor. "Ditto."

 _Well_ , Phil thinks watching the archer's retreating back as he walks away, _that went well..._

"It's not that you died," Natasha tells him calmly when he finds his way back to the common living room. "It's that he blamed himself for helping Loki kill you. He mourned you, and _you_ never bothered to tell him you were still alive."

"How was my death in any way his fault?"

"It wasn't, just like Fury activating project T.A.H.I.T.I. To being you back wasn't yours. But you still might have told us," the redhead continues.

"You didn't see the looks he got from the other agents after it happened. He may have saved New York, but he also nearly took down the helicarrier, and a couple of agents died. It wasn't hard for Clint to take on responsibility for your death as well. He's a mess; he was only just cleared for active missions again before we found out about Hydra." _And now you're back from the dead_ in the least of reasons why Clint Barton is more than a little distant and fragile right now hang in the air between them, unspoken but audible all the same.

"How do I fix it?"

Natasha shrugs and doesn't bother to humor his question. They both know Clint is the only one who can answer that, and the archer is probably still figuring the answer out for himself.

It's a bad idea. A terrible one, Phil is well aware but it all happens so quickly... Both teams have just returned from a joint effort to take on a Hydra splinter cell and are recovering back at the tower before they regroup and strategize what to do next. One minute Phil is attempting to talk to Clint again, and the next the archer is shoving him up against the nearby wall and smashing his lips against his, tearing at his belt in an effort to divest him of his pants. And this is never going to work, sex without communication never does, but Phil is desperate, lonely, and Christ it's been so long since anyone's touched him like this- the fiery need it ignites within him feels all consuming. He's selfish, whatever lapse in Clint's judgment has brought this on, Phil can't help thinking if this is the only chance he will ever have... Perhaps if he can make it good enough for him, he will be allowed to keep the archer, even for just a little while. The hurt when it inevitably ends will be devastating for the director, he has no doubt, and it's certainly not love that has them tumbling into bed together- at least not on Clint's part, but it might just be worth it.

Clint doesn't give him any opportunities for control of their tryst however. The archer's eyes burn with something Phil can't entirely identify as he makes quick work of opening himself up with Phil's left hand, most likely because he mistakenly believes since the prosthetic wasn't designed by Tony Stark, Phil won't have any sensation of what the fingers are being used for. He seems for an instant surprised they can flex and move, but says nothing, continuing to slide them in and out until he's satisfied with his prep-work and pulls off the rest of Phil's clothes.

Clint doesn't bother to remove any more of his own clothes beyond what is necessary for the pair of them to fuck, because this can't really be mistaken for anything else more tender or meaningful. And it's not as if Phil has never seen the man shirtless before in all the years they have known one another and worked together, and he gets it- that this is yet another way Clint can be in control. The archer needs and more than deserves that after everything, but Phil wishes he could see him, could touch him, that this could be something more than it is, even as Clint finally sinks down on him and Phil is threatened with being overwhelmed by sensation.

There is absolutely no talking involved (the archer stops him the moment Phil tries), and Clint clearly does his level best to prevent himself making any sounds to indicate he's enjoying this. Only the sounds of the rustle of the sheets and the smacking together of their bodies fill the otherwise empty and quiet room, and the archer immediately and wordlessly excuses himself to the shower the moment it's over. Phil wants to stay, wants to figure out just what the hell that was, and how to go about repairing whatever it is they have between them now, but after 15 minutes when it's clear Clint has no intention of leaving the shower or coming back out while he's still here, Phil takes the hint and takes his leave.

He's weak-willed where Clint is concerned it seems, because Phil can't possibly have any delusions about it being anything more than just sex, but it happens again anyway, this time when the Avengers stop by S.H.I.E.L.D.'s new secret headquarters for the nickel and dime tour. Phil doesn't pretend to understand how exactly the archer on his knees behind his desk giving him a wet and utterly filthy blowjob helps the other man, perhaps Clint doesn't know yet himself, but Phil isn't really in any position to complain- not even when Clint gets himself off while doing so and abruptly stops and takes his leave again before Phil can reach his own orgasm, forcing him to wait several hours before he can take care of the situation Clint caused.

Phil stops it before it can happen a third time, because as much as he wants Clint, being a cock for the archer and nothing more isn't what he's after. It doesn't give him the opportunity to show Clint what he feels for him, and is capable of as a lover, nor is it anywhere near as fulfilling as he had thought he might be able to get out of their escapades while it lasted. It can't continue, not when it's slowly hollowing him out inside.  


If Clint is disappointed he does a flawless job of concealing it, merely raising a surprised eyebrow when the older man pushes him back, and leaving before Phil can actually say anything to him, leaving Phil with the sinking feeling that somehow, against all odds, he's made the chasm between them even larger. 

Phil is laid up in the infirmary with several broken ribs a few months later, because sometimes even for a level-headed veteran agent his heart gets the better of his head. He forgets that Daisy is more than capable of defending herself and taking blows in the field than she was when she first joined their team. He doesn't think he will ever forget what it was like to find her slumped against the wall beside the door, barely breathing and bleeding out from her multiple gunshot wounds to the abdomen. And it isn't that he doesn't trust her, it's that he loves her, and he's the reason she's here, so he will do anything in his power to protect her. He just hasn't quite adjusted to the fact she needs him a little less these days is all.

May unhappily reminds him he can't afford to take risks like this anymore, as does Daisy, but both with care and fondness they can't entirely hide from their admonishments. It's nothing life-threatening, painful though it is. And with a very small dose of the offered pain medication he can still perform nearly all of his non-field duties as director, so it comes as a complete surprise when he wakes one morning to find Clint slumped in the visitor chair, drawn up beside his bed. He hasn't seen the archer in weeks, and they haven't spoken in even longer.

"Barton," he tries uncertainly, voice still a little hoarse from sleep. Clint's head snaps up so quickly, Phil feels rather sorry for the neck it sits upon, before the archer seems to take in and recall his surroundings.

"You're getting released from bed rest today," the sandy-haired blond says finally, and Phil for lack of any idea what to say to that, simply nods slowly. Yes, he was... Although he'd have to look into how exactly it was Clint knew about the goings on at headquarters and his private medical file. Clint frowns softly and pulls a thick file out from underneath his chair, depositing it on the bed bride him. Phil doesn't need to open it to know exactly what is within it, the numbers for this particular file, he think, are probably burned into his memory forever. He doesn't need to see what's inside it either; he only needs to close his eyes at night.

"How did you get that," Phil asks before he can stop himself.

"Level 8 clearance," Clint replies a little bit like his formerly cheeky self back when they had been an unstoppable force together. Which is bullshit, Phil knows because there's no way he's letting anyone new find out about project T.A.H.I.T.I. and get any ideas about trying to find a new genetic source to recreate their original efforts. "And you kinda let your whole mobile team in on it when you started doubting all the fake memories they put in your head," he shrugs. He's trying desperately to sound casual, Phil can tell, but the easy cadence of his voice doesn't reach his eyes. "I talked to May," he offers up finally in answer to his question. _Ah_ , Phil thinks, nodding softly.

"This is why you didn't tell us, isn't it," the archer continues, resting a hand over the file. Phil's always admired those hands- those long fingers as they knocked an arrow back and released... "You thought you might not be yourself, that you'd be dangerous." It isn't a question exactly, which is fine, because the archer isn't wrong. 

"I wasn't myself," Phil acknowledges finally on an exhale. "Fury put May in my path specifically so I would pick her on my team, he had he keeping an eye on me. She must have told you about the carving."

"Yeah she may have mentioned you suddenly fancied yourself an alien calligrapher," Clint confirms with a small rueful smile. "You still could have told us," he adds softly with a frown. "We might have helped you." _Any number of times,_ Clint thinks.

"Or I might have hurt you," Phil points out.

"That's a risk I would have been willing to make Coulson."

"But I wasn't." The archer snorts.

"After all the years we worked together, everything we've been through you still didn't trust me to-"

"Trust doesn't have anything to do with it. I have always trusted you."

"No? What's it about then," Clint asks impatiently, clearly not entirely convinced.

"I cared- care," he corrects himself, because if he's being honest with Clint he has to acknowledge that none of it is past tense. "I care too much."

"Jesus Phil," Clint curses voice shaky as he shakes his head. "That's exactly the kind of thinking that got you in this bed."

Phil shrugs, a small half-apologetic smile curling up at the corners of his mouth, because he's got him there, and Clint huffs out a laugh, before suddenly becoming more somber.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes.

"What for?" Because incredible as Clint no doubts finds it, Phil doesn't actually blame the archer for anything. He's a grown man, capable of making his own decisions, and at least as responsible for everything that has happened since the Avengers were made aware he was alive as Clint has been.

"You're ridiculous," the archer exhales. Phil shrugs again, in part because he doesn't really know what to say to that, but also it's a relief that he can again without excruciating pain shooting up through him. "And infuriating" he adds with a pointed glare at him, and then suddenly Clint is kissing him.

Phil should put a stop to it, he has to. He can't give Clint whatever it is that the archer is looking for, and putting himself through trying to do so again- _it'll break him_. Fortunately it seems he's being given a temporary reprieve to get a hold of himself and find some self-control and self-preservation instincts.

"You've got to stop this," the archer scolds, when he pulls back, gesturing lazily towards Phil and the hospital bed. "Thinking your life isn't as important as anyone else's. You aren't allowed to put us all through losing you again."

Phil wants to point out that he's not immortal, that none of them live a particularly safe lifestyle with the careers they have chosen. They are bound to lose him again one day, and there's no telling exactly when that will happen. Clint could very well go first this time around, although Phil tries very hard not to dwell too much in that possibility.

"I missed us," Clint admits, softer still. And it's only all of Phil's years of training that allow him to suppress a more obvious intake of breath, of betraying any hope these words might bring him. "Is there, uh, any chance maybe we could start over?"

"I-" Phil hesitates, because yes, that is exactly what he's been hoping and trying to achieve for months now, but it's hard to say what the archer is talking about starting over again. "I'd like that," he admits, and Clint beams, starting to lean in towards him like he's thinking of kissing him again. "But I don't think sleeping together again is a good idea."

"Oh right," Clint agrees hauling his movement immediately, and instead moving a hand up behind him to scratch the back of his head, blushing ever so slightly at the tips of his ears. "Yeah, no- that makes sense. -S'rry about that," the archer apologizes. "No I was thinking more like pizza and Dog Cops," the archer offers up quickly, although he still looks more than a little embarrassed.

Sounds good to me," Phil nods, smiling softly.

................................................................................................................................................................ 

"I'm serious Nat," the archer continues looking absolutely miserable as he flops down on the couch beside her. "First words out of his mouth after I suggested starting over- he didn't want us sleeping together again."

"Well you did say you left him high and dry last time, which by the way-you and his sexual exploits- not something I really needed to know about our old boss."

"Yeah, I get it. I messed up. But, Nat- what if he _never_ wanted to sleep with me? Did I... Did I rape him?" Ever since the thought has occurred to him, the archer has felt as though the bottom had dropped out from under him, even voicing the words aloud required a great deal of effort, and for him to fight the sensation he was going to be sick.

"You know I can't answer that for you little hawk, only he can," Natasha replies softly with a shake of her head.

She's right, the only way to know for sure is Clint will have to ask Phil. Perhaps next time though, much as the question is eating at him, the archer isn't feeling anywhere near brave enough yet to ask if he's commuted a terrible atrocity the first evening they've spent together as tentative friends again since Phil has returned from the dead. Honestly he should know better by now than to try and keep anything from a spy though...

"Clint, you've been tense the whole evening, what's wrong," the older man asks concerned as their second episode of _Dog Cops_ wraps up. "Did I do something wrong?" And that's just unacceptable Phil blaming himself, because this time it isn't even remotely his fault, so terrifying as the prospect is clone barrels forward with what's been eating at him.

"Phil- did I... Those few months back when we, when I jumped you- when I asked you about starting over last week you said you didn't want to sleep with me- did I rape you," he manages finally, wringing his hands and not wanting to meet those brown eyes, but forcing himself not to look away.

"I said I didn't think it would be a good idea," the older man replies softly, shaking his head.

"What?"

"In medical when you asked about starting over," Phil continues, "I said I didn't think sleeping together was a good idea, not that I didn't want to," and the agent smiles a but ruefully now, looking uncertain about how what he's just confessed might be received. "You didn't rape me, Clint," he assures the archer. "I could have said no, and stopped you if I hadn't wanted it to happen. I did the last time you propositioned me if you recall."

"You..." Clint manages softly a little surprised. "You wanted-"

"You, Clint," Phil nods, patiently. "Is that really so hard to believe?"

"Yes," Clint ejaculates, jaw gaping. "God do you know how long I've- uh, nevermind..." The archer laughs nervously, blushing a little once again.

"Clint," the older man interjects softly. "It was never a matter of desire for you."

"But..." Clint fills in, waiting expectantly for the other shoe to drop, because if it isn't desirability then there must be some other reason for why they aren't still considering the possibility to sleeping together again now.

"But," Phil nods in acknowledgement. "We want different things, and I can't just be casual with you. It's not what I want, and I don't know how," Phil confesses.

"You mean you-" Clint begins shaking his head, because all of this is simply too incredible, too much like what he's so long hoped for to trust it isn't some wonderful dream he's having. "How long?"

Phil shoots him a withering look, _and yeah, maybe that isn't the most pressing question at the moment_ , but now that the older agent has admitted he has some sort of deeper feelings for him, Clint **has** to know.

"Well before it was appropriate for me to think of you as anything other than a fellow agent," Phil supplies, and Clint thinks that doesn't really address his question, because...

"Yeah alright, but what exactly does that mean," Clint presses, because he's never been particularly good at letting something drop. "What are we talking about here- post-Nat, or..."

Phil laughs and shakes his head, before finally seeming to decide to lay it all on the table, straightening up a little and meeting Clint's eyes, holding his gaze, and only because Clint is trained to be so observant does he notice the slight movement of the older man tapping his foot on the carpet which belies his nervousness.

"I spent four years of my career, of my life, getting to know everything I possibly could about yours, chasing down every lead no matter how small."

"Yeah and then 'ya shot me Phil," Clint teases with an amused smirk. "Wait, you're not saying-"

"I'd be saying a lot more if you'd let me finish," Phil scolds, although the tone and patient smile undermine his attempt to admonish him, as Clint nods and mimes zipping his lips.

"Then you started going through handlers like tissues, and Fury had you assigned to me. You didn't exactly make it easy to get to know the parts of you that didn't make your files and dossier." Clint shrugs, because yeah, that's fair. "But you were worth the effort," the older man continues with a fond sort of smile, making the archer's heart stutter and Clint to fight the slight blush he feels forming at the back of his neck, rubbing his hand over it in an attempt to conceal it.

"I don't know exactly when it became something more than that," Phil admits, and that's a bit disappointing, but _okay, Clint would have a hard time putting an exact day or moment on when he first realized he was... Well, nevermind where that train of thought is headed, because Clint isn't ready to admit to anything yet, and certainly not while it still isn't entirely clear yet what exactly Phil feels for him._ "But I do know I spent a long time talking myself down, telling myself it wasn't appropriate. You trusted me, I couldn't betray that trust or take advantage, even if S.H.I.E.L.D doesn't specifically have any fraternization rules against it. I couldn't have you wonder for a moment if you got as far as you did because of favoritism on my part, or that you somehow owed me anything." Clint is biting the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything now. "Most of all I was afraid. I was afraid of the look on your face when you figured it out. Afraid of screwing everything up when you had to turn me down." Clint can't keep quiet anymore.

"What makes you think I would have turned you down?" Phil shoots him a disbelieving look, but otherwise doesn't respond, so Clint continues. "What if I didn't want something casual anymore?" The older man's pupils wide ever so slightly, and Christ if Clint weren't so hung up it would be scary just how much control Phil has over himself and his body. Clint wants to test it, stretch, bend, and break it, among countless other things which are entirely inappropriate to be thinking about right now when he's trying to convince the other man he'd like something more than to drag him to bed again.

"Then I'd say we owe one another a couple of dates, before sleeping together becomes a less destructive idea," Phil replies evenly, although he still isn't entirely convinced that Clint will want to put in that kind of effort for him.

Clint, much like he always has, manages to surprise him though. They've been dating for three months. _Which admittedly probably amounts to as many dates as one-and-a-half months for any more ordinary couple who don't regularly put entire continents between each other or cancel at the last-minute to save the world. Still it's nothing to sneeze at,_ and certainly more than the older man had dared to hope for, so Phil is making a real effort not to walk around waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it all to go wrong. But it's far easier a task said, than it is done.

Clint hasn't made any moves to do anything more than the occasional light kiss or two at the end of their dates. _And that's weird, isn't it? Probably says something about their relationship- about how attracted to him the archer is?_ Because Clint's clearly not opposed to sex as a general rule. Just sex with him since they've started dating for some reason. And this is probably one of those times where being a spy makes him rotten at relationships, because he can't even trust his own instincts anymore. What if Clint's realized Phil isn't what he wants afterall but he just can't bring himself to hurt him by breaking it off? Maybe falling into bed with him before had simply been the archer's misguided attempt to work through his feelings about thinking Phil was dead, and Phil perpetuating that lie for 2 years. Karma would probably dictate that Phil has that coming to him.

Which is why after the latest Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. cooperative battle both covered in dust, sweat, and grime it comes as something of a shock that Clint doesn't even bother to wait until they're off the streets-turned-battlefield and out of sight to pull him into a desperate and hungry kiss. They haven't even told the rest of their respective teams yet, and Stark who has just landed in his iron man suit a few feet away is definitely gawking, not to mention a few bystanders and the first arriving press now the smoke is beginning to settle. 

"Sorry," the archer apologizes when he finally pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against Phil's. "It's just..." Clint tries, shrugging his shoulders. " _You’re here_ ,” Clint whispers the words on an exhale with relief bleeding through every syllable.

"So many times," he continues with a smile Phil wants to commit to permanent memory, "After we cleaned up and it was all over I'd start to look for you, and then I remembered... But you're here. You're actually here. You're alive," the archer whispers, almost reverently, and Phil might not entirely understand how or why this can be anything besides a dream, but those bright blue eyes that are searching his are just so damned happy, so earnest it's utterly disarmed him. Phil can't think of a single thing to say to that, so he decides to let his actions speak for him instead, pulling Clint back down for another kiss full of the same passion and hunger the archer had offered previously.

It's no doubt far too soon to say it, but the words echo through the agent's mind, are all but shouted in his every movement now: _I love you._ I _**love**_ you. I love you, Clint Barton, Phil thinks, nearly giddy as the archer kisses him back.

And the Iron Man suit could probably lift and carry both of them back to the tower, but they take a taxi instead, because they don't want anything or anyone interrupting this moment for them, or to be apart for anything more than catching their breath between kisses. Phil doesn't remember much of the elevator ride up to Clint's floor, muttered nonsense from the archer about how wonderful Phil is, how lucky Clint is to be with him fill the tiny space, making Phil kiss him all over again to silence him, because that's ridiculous. He's vaguely aware of their stumbling into the bedroom, but only when Clint has finished unbuttoning his dress shirt between kisses and the cool air hits his bare chest as the archer peels up his undershirt, is he suddenly and abruptly pulled back to himself and the present.

Clint draws in a breath as he looks at him, and Phil can't quite read the other man's expression, but he knows this is it. This is the moment when the other man will come to his senses. "God you're gorgeous," the archer whispers reverently. Phil doesn't even realize that he's shivering until Clint is ducking down to cover the older man's body with his.

"Phil," Clint whispers softly. "You okay," the archer asks concerned. His fingers slide over the older man's left pectoral causing Phil to shiver again and Clint to freeze.

"Phil," Clint whispers tenderly, fingers slowly resuming stroking over the large scar. "I won't pretend that I like it. I may never be able to look at it without thinking about Loki- without blaming myself for this," he offers a bit sadly. "But I like _you_ and it's a package deal. And all in all," the archer smiles, making a show of looking him up and down, "you're still a pretty fucking incredible-looking package."

Phil frowns, the words hitting him like a bucket of ice water, and any arousal which had been building up quickly wilts, as he shakes his head. Because Clint is looking at him like he's in _awe, as if he's something precious, beautiful even,_ the way Phil has always dreamed of being looked at by someone he cares for, and he can't take it. The lie wonderful as it might be, hurts too much. "You don't have to do that," the older man manages finally.

"What," Clint replies, clearly not following him.

"I might not know why it is you're with me, but we're both adults here. You don't have to patronize me to soothe my ego, there's no need to pretend it's because of my looks. I'm well aware they're not much to recommend me." Clint continues to stare at him blankly. "There's a reason you don't take any pictures of me."

"Phil, you really think I haven't taken any pictures of you," the archer asks looking more than a little surprised.

"Well, yes I... I did. Until you said it like that," the older man admits looking confused up at the sea of blue in the eyes staring down at him, suddenly full of sympathy and sadness. And suddenly Clint is pulling away, sliding off of him and the bed, and Phil thinks now he’s finally screwed it all up. If only he could have swallowed the lie; if he could just have continued to pretend… He starts to sit up, tugging his t-shirt back down over his chest, before Clint is popping back up from the floor with a small box, and reaching up, flattening a palm against the older man’s chest to keep him anchored where he is.

“Stay,” the archer says softly, somewhere between instruction and request, crawling back up onto the bed and curling into the other man’s side as he places the box with infinite care into Phil’s lap, nodding as the older man glances over for permission. Phil knows based on the context and timing of its introduction what must be in this box, but he still isn't prepared for what greets him when he pulls the lid off to reveal its contents. There must be hundreds of photographs in here, cataloging absolutely everything, and while not every one of them is a profile of a face, they're clearly all of the same subject...

"Clint," Phil whispers equal parts stunned and touched, because the older man can't possibly think of what else to say. He doesn't need a count of the photographs as the archer carefully reaches in and lays them out in front of him. Phil doesn't have to know how many others make up his portfolio of works to know that he is seeing here the majority of it, and the older man knows without asking that there must be more photos of him than any other of Clint's subjects. There's an account of each of his features laid out before him on the sheets including all the ones he's known for years couldn't possibly be attractive to anyone, except somehow, beyond all imagining to one Clinton Francis Barton. Crisp black, white and gray-scale have captured the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from a secret and hidden smile. Callused hands turning over and re-assembling a just polished gun. A tired weight on his shoulders, even as he sits determinedly upright in front of a glowing computer screen. Standing tall at parade rest on the deck of the helicarrier beside Hill and Fury. His shoulders and back bare to the waist while he rests in one of S.H.I.E.L.D's safe-houses, sleeping soundly, secure in the knowledge that Clint is keeping watch. Shadows and light in each caressing each feature and contour like a lover, reverent, and impossibly making him seem beautiful and entirely human at the same time, even when the walls are up and he's in the armor of his well-pressed and tailored suits.

"Clint, some of these are..." _not long after they had first started working together, after he had given Clint his camera,_ Phil thinks stunned. The agent doesn't seem to be able to find the right words, or get his tongue to cooperate with getting them out, but Clint seems to understand what it is he wants to say anyway, nodding softly.

"I don't know what asshats convinced you otherwise, and I promise, if you really need me to I'll make a real effort to talk about my feelings and all the other reasons I'm with you, but Phil," Clint replies, gently allowing his hand to drift over the top of Phil's. "They're off their rockers. You've always been handsome to me. And you're not any less so now, than when I took these," he assures him, gesturing briefly to where his t-shirt covers his scar, before allowing his hand to reach over and clasp Phil's prosthetic one, drawing it gently up to his lips to press a kiss.

................................................................................................................................................................ 

The headlines and front page of most of the tabloids the following morning seem less concerned with the small battle that took place near wall-street, and more occupied with a high-resolution photo of the Avenger's archer kissing an older man in a dust-covered suit. And it's not one of Clint's, but it still gets its own small frame and place on the bureau they share whenever Phil is able to visit the Tower. The tabloids have misidentified them as 'Hawkeye' and a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, but it's not their fault, that's just the suits and masks they wear. The two of them and their friends can see the cracks; where each has in that moment allowed their walls to slip, only for each other. This is the first photo of _Clint and Phil_ together. But it certainly won't be the last.


End file.
